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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23373628">Morning Eggs</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanalese/pseuds/fanalese'>fanalese</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hank Anderson Swears, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Suicide mention, Trauma, implied trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 13:22:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,226</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23373628</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanalese/pseuds/fanalese</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor wonders how an ordinary day could turn out so bad. But there's no foreshadowing in real life. It's a harsh lesson learned in a dark alley, with three gunshot wounds and the muffled yells of his best friend above him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hank Anderson &amp; Connor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>84</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Morning Eggs</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There was no warning of how horribly the day would end up besides the eggs Hank had burned that morning.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was a soft curse that startled Connor out of stasis, (“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You can say sleeping, Connor, there’s no difference.”</span>
  </em>
  <span>) and sent him peering into the kitchen for danger. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Is everything alright…” (</span>
  <em>
    <span>“We’re friends. Friends use each other’s names.”</span>
  </em>
  <span>) “Hank?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s not much to hide; the billowing smoke isn’t exactly hard to spot, but Hank whips his head around and sheepishly moves to block the stove’s view regardless. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Uhm, yeah. Just-” He scratches his head, turning to the mess behind him. “Just some trouble with today’s breakfast.” A sigh, and Hank runs his hand down his face in a motion of defeat.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sumo groans from his bowl, his noisy chewing interrupted to turn at the two of them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You fed Sumo,” Connor notes, LED blinking into an orange. The stove clicks off, and Connor moves his confused gaze from Sumo back to the eggy disaster being managed by Hank. There’s a sudden anxiety that fills in his processor, a primitive fear of replacement that has lingered despite his own deviancy and the success of the revolution. “I am usually in charge of breakfast. Was there an issue?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no issue Connor. Figured you might want the extra rest. Looks like I fucked this one over, though.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Oh. No replacement, then. He decides to file the experience away for later reference. The orange on his temple flickers back to blue, and he can’t help the smile pulling on his cheeks. It’s his favorite uncontrollable action. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It was an act of kindness.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Great analysis, Sherlock. Though I’m not sure if it counts, there’s a mess to clean AND no breakfast.” Hank’s stare is still down at the pan, and he sighs again, the corner of his mouth twitching into a disappointed frown.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I appreciate the sentiment. Maybe I can teach you.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And let this happen again? Not a fucking chance!” It’s teasing- there’s a smile of his own when Hank says it. The moment fizzles out via a faint buzzing that Connor sources at the kitchen table. Hank grumbles some more, lifting up a finger at the interruption and making a move to the phone. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The fuck do you want?” Connor can hear the tones of human voices on the opposite ends of the call. If he wanted to, he could listen in, even as Hank moves the conversation into his own room. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Still, the last time he eavesdropped, it ended in a pretty humiliating lecture on "personal space"―Connor has a whole file on it, figuring it to be useful―so instead he chooses to work on the currently burnt pan. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He still hasn’t managed to scrub out the egg when Hank comes back out. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Paperwork from 1:00-9:00, and there’s an apartment that needs investigating. No urgency on that, just some complaints.” Hank stretches his arms above his head with a deep grunt, and his face twists in a brief expression of pain at his sore back. “Get dressed, and we’ll get going.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Overall, the day was turning out to be uneventful. Even for an android, the office work had Connor rolling his coin in a useless attempt to move the clock. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Connor wasn’t prepared for much when they were finally given the OK to investigate the apartment; which was empty besides a television and a table too old to be standing. The mold levels were high- too high for humans to be comfortably living there. Connor ran his hands along the dusty cracks in the wall. The wallpaper would have been beautiful, given some cleaning and love.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was expected- the area they were in was practically barren, save for some abandoned buildings and tenants renting to sell drugs. There had been a murder nearby, and there were some calls about that room in particular. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Something about an android always coming in and out,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Hank had said. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>With a tendency of forgetfulness. Nothing detective worthy, let’s get out of here.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“There’re better ways to enter a suspect’s apartment than breaking the doors.” He was filing a report for it as they stepped over its ruins, making their exit―this was the fifth in the past two months. How was he supposed to explain that no, there was no evidence or suspect, but yes―they did break down the door. Again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not like there was much to steal, anyways. If someone actually lived there, I’d―”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you doing in my apartment?” An unfamiliar voice, but a soft face matching the suspect image Connor currently had pulled up in his vision. They both stiffened, hands reaching to be in the vicinity of their weapons. A quick analysis showed the android was stressed- and very, very angry. If Hank were an android, Connor would be communicating via mind palace, calling him a dumbass for breaking that door. Instead, he continued sifting through the files of the suspect, keeping a wary eye on changes in movement or mood.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“DPD.” Hank flashed his badge, shuffling closer. “We have reports of suspicious activity, and there’s been a murder nearby. An android, an older model. We were called to investigate the room.” </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Does that escalation include breaking my fucking door?” The android’s head twitched in a motion of irritability, and he took a step back from the two. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The department covers all damages caused in investigation. If there’s nothing to hide, there’s no reason to worry.” Connor replied smoothly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The suspect narrowed his eyes, and Connor felt the familiar gaze of analysis. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re an android- with him? The DPD tried to kill us.” Disbelief. Something about that accused had Hank defensive. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The DPD-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The DPD has made some mistakes in the past, and integration of a peaceful environment in all work is essential to a better future.” Connor didn’t trust Hank to speak on this issue. Both took surprise in his interruption, but the android especially seemed unsatisfied. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a fucking traitor. Both of you- you’re fucking traitors-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Connor recognized the motion of the android, and rushed forward before it could complete. The suspect faltered, and Hank himself let out a startled “Hey!-” when the two collided. They struggled on the floor a bit, and Hank fumbled into his belt to click his handcuffs out. Finally, Connor got a clear hold of the suspect’s arm, and the hand holding a loaded gun. With a quick jerk, he ripped it out of his grasp, letting it clatter across the room. An analysis showed the chambers were half full, and the safety was off. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t fucking do anything! Get the fuck off of me!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Connor flipped him on his stomach, holding him down as Hank fit the handcuffs and locked him in. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re taking you into custody for attempted assault of an officer and illegal possession of a weapon. You’re going to be detained and questioned.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Connor released his own grip, allowing Hank to stand with the android who was...not fighting as hard as he could have been. He was still strained against the restraints, but was oddly quiet, even as Hank led them to the outside of the apartments. Something wasn’t right. Hank let out a noise of relief, turning his attention back to Connor. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Good work. We got here just on time.” His face fell a bit, nodding to the orange of Connor’s LED. “What? Something wrong?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Connor motioned to the car. “Go ahead and keep watch while the officers come. I want to look around the building.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hank pulled his lips into a thin line, but didn’t express outward disapproval. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“20 minutes, and we’re going. I don’t want to be in this fucking dump longer than we need to be.” With that, Connor gave a nod, and ventured to the edges of the building. Walking around the parameters, he couldn’t help but give an exhale of a laugh at the faint “Oh, shut the fuck up, will you?” from the car. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So far, the alley was in the same undisturbed, ruined condition as the building. The bricks were one bad storm away from rubble. He made note to file a safety complaint once their suspect was in. For now, he had a job to do. And that job was wading in the pile of damp, stacked trash bags. Connor involuntarily grimaced at the sight―Hank would not be appreciative of the smell in his car, but he needed a clear view of all bags for proper analysis. The other method, Hank most likely would be more unapproving. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There was a crunch, somewhere deeper into the dark of the alley. Connor swiftly reached for his taser; a placebo of comfort while they awaited on an official law allowed androids to carry weapons. He tentatively moved forward, trying to get his scans to reach into the far corner of the alley. And then, out of the shadows- a face. The same face as the suspect.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>They weren’t forgetful. There were two of them. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s another here! Hank-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The android was fast, and Connor heard the shot before he had even registered there was another weapon.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The moment the bullet pierced through his abdomen, he thought of Simon. A friend of Markus―</span>
  <em>
    <span>who knew exactly what he was getting into, Connor, what happened wasn’t your fault. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He thought he knew what death was, having shared the experience with him. But this pain―a horrible, deep dread, was something that caught in his throat before he even hit the ground. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Where’s my brother? Where’s my brother?” the android yelled, loud enough to pierce past his ringing ears. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Connor! What the fuck was that?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His senses were dulled, his sight was barely clear enough to register Hank’s entrance with the first suspect, who was still struggling in his cuffs. His eyes locked with Hank’s before being blocked out of view by the unrestrained android. Connor’s chest twisted with fear, and with great (but slow) effort, he propped himself slightly on his elbow, shaking his head to clear out the buzzing system warnings.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Let him out. Let him out of the cuffs.” There was an undeniable shake to the android’s voice, but Connor figured it would be best not to question it- not when the gun was being pointed at Hank. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Back away from the detective, NOW.” More dominant. Hank always had a way of making his suspects quake at his anger, yet the same tremble was there (though, hidden more gracefully.) </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The android holding the gun flickered his sight from Hank down to Connor, clutching his side obediently still. The android squeezed his eyes shut, his whole face clenching a stressed blue as he aimed the gun back at Connor and shot again. And again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Connor wasn’t sure whether the resulting ringing in his ears came from the bullets, or from the way his head violently collided into the hard ground as his elbow gave way. There was a gush of wet, and the already agitating errors in his program doubled. He heard muffled yelling, the jangle of keys clumsily thrown on the opposite side of the alley, and rushing of footsteps, going farther and farther until he was questioning if they were ever there in the first place. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He was yanked back into the present with a rough shake to his shoulders. Hank was yelling his name, </span>
  <em>
    <span>loud</span>
  </em>
  <span>, making Connor grimace at the pressure in his head. Connor had felt pain before, the split second before his demise after his first mission, the painful crunch when he got clipped by a car chasing those two deviants, but something about his newly conscious mind made this experience unbearable. There was a timer amongst the status reports. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Any relief granted in the way his existence fuzzed was interrupted by sharp, stabbing agony as Hank tried to move him up. “Stop. Stop, don’t move me, it hurts.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He wasn’t sure when his eyes had closed, but he found himself peering up at Hank’s figure kneeling over his side, hands anxiously hovering over Connor’s body. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck. Fuck. You’re here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Where...would I have gone?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wherever the fuck your head went in the past twenty minutes.” Connor’s brows knit together at that. A quick scan showed that yes, twenty minutes had past- was he unconscious? When did time move that fast? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hank rolled him slightly, a harsh movement stopping Connor’s irrational thoughts with a scream. “Stop!” All touch was swiftly removed, making way for Connor to rip his nails into his own palms with gasping breaths as he rode out the rolling pain. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay- Okay. Breathe, Connor. Fuck, just keep breathing.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It hurts.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Just,” Hank’s eyes darted around their surroundings. “Just don’t move. We’ll call someone to come get you repaired.” The only shops open were Cyberlife. Android hospitals were their only way to keep the money flowing and to give their one-paged apology enough credit for their crimes against humanity. They’d have him exactly where they wanted him- they could decommission him, shut him down, bring Amanda back-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No repair center. Please. Please, don’t take me to a shop.” He’s not sure how his LED could burn a more aggravated red than its previous state, but that display alone had Hank panicking with him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Calm down Connor, you’re going to hurt yourself.” Connor felt a gentle weight over his chest, away from the wound. A thumb rubbed above his mechanical lungs in smooth, comforting circles. (Connor didn’t want to think about how hard they were shaking.) “You need to slow your breathing.” When his air intake leveled to an acceptable pace, Hank took his palm up, running a hand through his own hair nervously. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Please. There’s- there’s no time anyways. You can fix what’s essential here.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck. Okay, no repair center. Do we have what you need at home?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He wants Hank’s hand back. He wants a lot of things, mostly rest. His head swims too much to allow a response, and his lips part with no noise. Even before his eyes slide shut, he feels the weight of his head loll to the side, brought back quickly to face Hank. Didn’t Hank want him to rest more, too? Isn’t that why he had burnt those eggs? Connor feels like there’s a metaphor in there somewhere, but he was never programmed for art.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“-nnor, don’t go into stasis right now, look at me, come on-” He’s rarely heard him that desperate. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I believe to recall... your preference for the term ‘sleeping’.” Connor remembers, of course he does, but his face twists in confusion when his energy levels deny access to the saved file. The “human” part of him can grab the general idea of that conversation- his awareness of the couch's stiff comfort compared to the DPD’s charging ports, the booming of Hank’s voice from the kitchen asking, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>How’d your sleep go, Connor</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”, and the disappointed droop in posture at a response that he later analyzed as too programmed. Too robotic. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He wants that morning to outcast the blinding red warnings on repeat, but there’s no comfort granted in being an android, not even in the darkness of death that all beings are guaranteed, he finds, because even as his eyes are closing-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“-questing status report, that’s an order!” Frantic, loud enough to jolt Connor out of his thoughts.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“March 27th, report time 10:16. Severe damage to biocomponent #HD345. Severe damage to biocomponent #T7HKU. Significant damage to chassis over platforms on front body. Thirium levels at 58%. Stress at 70%.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Connor’s voice is pulled without resistance, and he turns his head away once he sees the way Hank shudders at the empty (though slightly glitchy) tone. His discomfort in its harsh rip of control must be obvious, because there’s a warm hand on his accompanying Hank’s soft apology.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Stress levels rising. Thirium levels dropping. In current conditions, shutdown expected in 0:25:24. Please contact Cyberlife for re-”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop. Alright, stop.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The warmth leaves, and Connor’s mouth snaps shut. He clenches his jaw, asserting as much control over himself as he can after rattling off his own death times and listing his own damaged organs. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Connor. I need you to look at me.” His head turns, though it’s unclear if it was voluntary or a systemic reaction to Hank’s order. The room is smudged with a horrible blue and grey but beyond the flickering system errors, he can focus on the hard lines of the face in front of him. There’s no need for a mechanical analysis to read the stress on Hank. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Still, Connor finds himself reaching, wanting to grasp at the emotions he can’t pick out through his ruined vision. He groans at the strain, legs kicking out as the gaping holes in his chest and abdomen burn and as he fights the angry glows of </span>
  <em>
    <span>ERROR- ERROR</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hank’s hand comes back in an urgent squeeze, moving their palms to rest on Connor’s chest.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Jesus- stop moving, son. You need to tell me how to help you. Do we have what we need at home?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” He pants out. There’s a pathetic waver to his voice. “Hank.” Another sharp pain shoots through his insides, and he twists painfully. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Connor-”</span>
  <span></span>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know. I know.” He takes in a deep breath; unnecessary, because his body is already starting to chill in the night, but it’s a human gesture of self-comfort which he so desperately needs right then. “You need to pull out and pinch the severed tubes from my chest. Until the leaking stops, I can’t fully open my chassis to let you access my biocomponents. It’ll give me another thirty minutes.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hank’s face tightens, and his stare flickers from Connor’s face to the thirium-stained wound.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m being directed to go into stasis to conserve energy. I-” He swallows nervously. “I might not have a choice. I’m programmed to continue reactions, but my ability to fully communicate and involve myself with the situation will be inaccessible. You’ll need to hurry. If I...fall asleep, you won’t be able to get in at all.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Will you feel it?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hank’s voice is so soft, Connor isn’t even sure if he spoke at all. His mouth opens once, and closes in defeat. That must have been enough of an answer; because even past his own alerts, there’s a safety ping in the rear of his vision warning. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>ELEVATED HEART RATE IN: HANK ANDERSON </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’ll be okay.” They’re empty words, Connor doesn’t have access to his probability analyzer right now, though something desperate in Hank’s eyes tells him to speak regardless. “I trust you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hank grits his teeth in such a force that it takes everything for Connor not to spout a health warning. The wetness in Hank’s eyes are forcefully blinked away with an angry movement. “Fuck. Fuck!” Once again, his hand leaves Connor’s, this time to reach over and unravel his tie. The itch for comfort is sated as his grip finds its way into the crook of Hank’s arm. “Put this in your mouth.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“...My tongue is also replaceable. In case of damage, its removal is less stressful as-”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up, Con. Please.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s something in his voice that Connor can’t find in him to deny. Uncomfortably shifting, Connor lets his jaw drop and bites back the urge to spit out the fabric pushing back on his tongue. There’s a slight pressure next to his wound, carefully pushing his ruined shirt aside.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. You’re doing good, Connor.” A sharp inhale. There’s a wobble to Hank’s voice that has rarely been heard outside of the worst of drunk nights. He thinks about how close he got to losing him that very first time, the way his gut fell and empathy gnawed at him looking at the last bullet in his revolver. He thinks about how if it had gone wrong, he might have never seen Hank’s horribly burnt eggs, or the way Hank’s eyes light up at his non-programmed jokes, or how he might have never felt that very first hug that held more love than any search engine could verify. He’d do anything to feel that security again, and though he’s never thought too much about mortality, now he understands how much he doesn’t want to go, how he wants to stay here and keep learning about life with his best friend and he’d do anything to―</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And then he doesn’t think at all. His eyes squeeze shut and there’s nothing but blinding pain, shrill beeps and bright flashes of red. He’s not aware of his own thrashing until the world becomes clear enough to register the hands on his shoulders and stern murmuring somewhere above him. Something irrational in him thought that if it were Hank, it would hurt less, but this is a far cry from the hug that wrapped him in safety and security, all he wants to do is get away, get away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The tie is tugged from his mouth, giving Connor the chance to take in the wild, gasping breathes he had been fighting for. He manages for a word, but there’s a stone in his throat that filters any speech into a whir and a pathetic whimper. There’s a touch on his face, and he violently flinches. Surely there’s no injury there, he can’t take any more messing with his insides, he’d much rather bleed out that have to go through that again,</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A quiet hush, somewhere behind all of the chaos, wrings away some of his tension. The touch comes back, softer this time, cupping his cheek, and the gesture is so sincere that it takes conscious thought to will his sobs to a slow (When did he start crying?). The ringing in his head starts to clear out a bit, and the timer jumps up another twenty minutes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry. Sorry.” It’s more static than voice, but Hank gets the message, offering a hand through his hair. He doesn’t want to see the expression on Hank’s face, but with a great deal of strength, his eyes open regardless. They share the same tempo of trembling and the same shade of white, though Hank’s paleness from anxiety and Connor’s from his weakening chassis control. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t do any more. I can’t. I’m sorry.” He’s selfish. He’s spent all of his waking life trying to convince his friend that life was worth living, but the moment he feels pain himself, he gives up. “I can’t. Please, I can’t.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You have to. There’s just one more, and I can take you home. We’re going to go home, I just need to do one more.” A drop of wet lands besides Connor’s nose, and he sobs dryly at the shared fear between them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>We were just okay. Everything was okay this morning. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Fabric goes past his teeth once again. Despite making no true movement to stop him, Connor’s head shakes to the side wildly in protest, muffled pleads going past the tie while his hands grip once again at Hank’s arm. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This time, things are much more clear, though he’s not certain if it makes it better or worse. Hank’s voice is more clear, rambling heavy apologies laced with the occasional curse at Connor’s jerky movements. He tries to focus on that dull rumble of speech rather than the twisting wires, but there was a strained scream, loud enough to block even his internal warnings. It wasn’t until his throat cracked, and the scream choked off into muted static that Connor registered it as his own. His view glitched out into brilliant colors, threatening to cut off completely until the intense pressure from his tubes finally withdrew. There was vague movement, if he were human, Connor would have been fighting back vomit as the world violently spun.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A grunt, and he was lifted into the air, a firm grip on his back and under his knees into a secure bridal’s hold. He groaned at the sudden shift, but a warm pull into Hank’s chest had him sighing with relief. Hank’s lips were still moving, though nearly incoherent past the fog in Connor’s head. “Almost there, almost there. We’re almost done. Can you give me a status report?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The report is less jarring this time, and Connor is grateful he doesn’t need to do it on his own. He closes his eyes, listening to his own emotionless dump of data.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“March 27th, report time 10:27. Severe damage to biocomponent #HD345. Severe damage to biocomponent #T7HKU. Significant damage to chassis over platforms along front body. Thirium levels at 44%. Stress at 86%. Stress levels dropping. Thirium levels unchanging. In current conditions, shutdown expected in 0:59:24. Please c-”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Another squeeze from Hank. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s good. I’ll get you home. You’re going to be okay, Con.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Connor makes another pathetic noise in response, eyes sliding closed. He lets his head roll from facing upwards to a position where his nose is buried into the crook of Hank’s arm, taking a deep breath. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You-” It’s more static than a word.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t talk if you don’t have to.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He shakes his head, continuing. “Your back. Should not be moving heavy loads.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s no response other than the quiet shuffling of feet and a choked noise. He realizes―Hank’s still crying. He wants to apologize, but can only manage a breath of a syllable before his optical units shut down and his body finally gives in to stasis. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so this is the first fic ive written in two years and i'm very nervous about it... this was edited and reviewed by a very very nice person in the detroit:become fandom server! i've got some ideas of how to wrap this fic up, but depending on the response we'll see what happens. please feel free to comment, message or kudos! ty for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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